July 14, 2009
If you've been reading this blog for any length of time at all, then I'm sure it's abundantly clear that I, Amy Lawson, am not a helicopter parent.
For those of you who don't know, a helicopter parent is any person, male or female, who constantly hovers over their child. You know the type--they won't allow their son to walk to soccer practice at age 13 for fear of wild animals, they won't allow their daughter to walk to her 2nd grade classroom on her own for fear of overly-slippery floors, and they won't allow their 15-year-old to trick-or-treat without supervision due to the possibility of Snickers laced with crack cocaine.
To put it simply, any respectable helicopter parent most certainly would not allow their child to fall ass-over-tea-kettle into an electrified pig pen. See guys? I failed the test right there.
It's not that I fight the urge to hover over James--to be quite honest, I just don't have it in me. Over supervision plain and simply isn't in my chemical make-up. The thought of it alone tires the hell out of my big, pregnant body.
On the other side of the token, I'm not a laissez-faire parent either. In other words, my kid has a bedtime, he doesn't eat candy for supper, I limit the amount of TV he watches, and trust me when I say that he'll see stars if he has the audacity to throw a rock, a frog, or an unkind word at any other child.
I like to think that I fall somewhere near the middle of the road--I keep James safe, I'm doing my best to instill him with kindness and compassion, and he has freedoms that are appropriate for a kid his age. He can play in the yard when I'm inside, he can deliver items to our elderly neighbor's house without me tagging four feet behind, he's taking the bus to pre-K in the fall, etc. He's also free to dig at his boogers as he pleases, as long as he's in his bedroom.
I'm saying all of this because this morning I had I really strange experience.
James was in the middle of his swimming lesson, while I sat on the beach and watched. It was a small group, so there were three teachers and three students. James had assigned himself to his very favorite teacher, Miss Tina--and really now, who can blame him? She's 19, a natural blond, and has a very suggestive tattoo on the small of her back. After every single lesson James longingly says, "Mom, I weally luff Miss Tina." And I say, "James, I really don't blame you. She's smokin' hot."
Anywho, Tina turned her head to talk to another one of the teachers, and at that very moment, James slipped off of his kick-board and started struggling to keep his head above water--arms flapping, feet kicking, total look of terror in his eyes. My instinct, obviously, was to tear the maternity clothes clear off my body, dive into the lake and save my son. But the logic side of my brain was saying, "Amy, he's one foot away from his swimming teacher and his head hasn't gone under the water once. He's scared, but he's fine."
About three seconds later, Tina noticed James, reached one foot over and plucked him out of the water by the back of his wetsuit. I don't care if I'd been crowned the International Helicopter Parent of the Year, there's absolutely no way I could have gotten to him that quickly anyway. James didn't cry, he just trudged up to me on the beach, gave me a sopping wet hug, and said, "I'm done."
"Done," I said? Trying my best to sound surprised. "I know you fell in, but you're okay. You did a great job keeping your head above the water, James. Let's finish up your lesson." It took five full minutes of convincing, but he got back into the water and finished what he had started.
That left me feeling pretty stinking proud.
After the lesson, James dried off and changed, clicked himself into his car seat, and we headed off to an afternoon at daycare. I walked him in, kissed him on the head, and wished him a really happy day. Then, as soon as I got into my car and drove around the corner, I pulled over, put her in park, and cried my eyes out.
We're talking a major crying moment. It was an OH MY GOSH MY BABY ALMOST DROWNED OUT THERE kind of cry. One of those cries where you're sobbing so hard you can't make coherent words. A cry where a paper bag probably would have come in handy.
For three seconds, while my kid was helplessly struggling in the lake, I felt fear like I've rarely felt it before. If I had to guess, I felt the same level of fear that helicopter parents feel about the idea of almost everything.
So, to all of you moms and dads out there who just can't help but hover, I say this: "I will no longer think bad thoughts when I see you at the park. I will no longer send snide text messages to my husband about how thoroughly insane I think you are. From this point forward, I will empathize with you, feel compassion for you, and encourage you to get a heavy prescription for blood pressure medication--because DANG YO, I bet you need it."
I, Amy Lawson, have officially made peace with the helicopter parent.
Cars, Pigs, and Electical Shocks to the Wanker
July 10, 2009
For the first time in six weeks, the sun has been shining in Maine. And no, that is absolutely not an exaggeration. I can't even begin to tell you how happy and relieved I am to see some yellow light in the blue, blue sky. Greyness wears on my soul, and let me tell you, my soul was dangerously close to kicking my husband's ass. Thankfully--due to the weather and not my propensity toward self control--we're still very happily married. The bliss marches on.
Anywho, we had a big week over here in the Lawson house, so I'll go ahead and catch you up on things:
1. I'm now officially 27 weeks pregnant, and according to most sources, that means I'm in my 3rd trimester. In honor of this milestone, I've become absolutely huge. Here's a story to prove it: There's this creepy guy in my office building--you know, the type who has a weird ponytail, outdated glasses, and is so stinking quiet you question whether or not his lips are sewn shut? Mmm hmm, that guy. But yesterday, when I walked past his door he did a quick double-take, and before his mind could filter his mouth he blurted, "Whoa! What happened to you? You look like you're about to explode!"
I stopped, stared for a second and said, "Ummm. I'm pregnant?"
And he was all, "But what happened?"
So I was like, "Well John, sometimes, when man and a woman love each other very much, they..."
Thankfully this phone rang right on cue, because honestly, I had no idea where I was headed with that story.
2. We actually bought a new car. I'm not lying, it's sitting in my garage. Right next to the '89 Blazer that I love so much.
Jared thinks we're going to sell the Blazer for for $500 in the newspaper. I, on the other hand, think we're going to slap some antique plates on that beauty and start featuring it at local car shows--Bondo, rust, and all!
Official Kelly Blue Book value: $181.
3. Last night, when I brought the new car home, Jared was itching to go for a ride. I, in my infinite wisdom, suggested that we take James to the local strawberry farm--after all, I heard a rumor that they have baby pigs. So off we went, with a four year old boy, a very new vehicle, and light grey interior to enjoy the sight of swine.
When we arrived at the farm and asked for the piglets, the friendly farmer directed us to a big clump of woods, telling us that "The pigs er back thar."
"Well ookeey."
We drove back to the one acre-ish stand of trees and sure enough eight baby pigs came barreling out of the woods and toward the electric fence. Well, seven actually--the brown one just kept on lounging in the food trough.
These suckers were up to their elbows in pure mud, and James was (obviously) thrilled beyond capacity. He leaned over the fence to pat a piglet on the bum, tripped over the electric fence, and landed in the pig mud.
I stood there, silent, shocked, reluctant to grab my child--because hello!, I have no idea if he's a conductor of electricity or not, and I was in no mood to get shocked when I had a perfectly able-bodied husband standing directly to my left.
I was like, "Jared, save him."
And Jared was like, "I think you should save him, he needs his mother."
So I was all, "I'll save him, but next time you want me to touch your you-know-what I'm putting on a pair of wool socks and rubbing my feet all over the carpet before I do it. That way you'll know how your kid feels."
I won. Jared picked him up. Turns out the electric fence was off, thank heavens, stars, and goodness.
So now, we have a sweet new car with an iPod jack and the scent of piglet poop.
It's good to be a Lawson.
For the first time in six weeks, the sun has been shining in Maine. And no, that is absolutely not an exaggeration. I can't even begin to tell you how happy and relieved I am to see some yellow light in the blue, blue sky. Greyness wears on my soul, and let me tell you, my soul was dangerously close to kicking my husband's ass. Thankfully--due to the weather and not my propensity toward self control--we're still very happily married. The bliss marches on.
Anywho, we had a big week over here in the Lawson house, so I'll go ahead and catch you up on things:
1. I'm now officially 27 weeks pregnant, and according to most sources, that means I'm in my 3rd trimester. In honor of this milestone, I've become absolutely huge. Here's a story to prove it: There's this creepy guy in my office building--you know, the type who has a weird ponytail, outdated glasses, and is so stinking quiet you question whether or not his lips are sewn shut? Mmm hmm, that guy. But yesterday, when I walked past his door he did a quick double-take, and before his mind could filter his mouth he blurted, "Whoa! What happened to you? You look like you're about to explode!"
I stopped, stared for a second and said, "Ummm. I'm pregnant?"
And he was all, "But what happened?"
So I was like, "Well John, sometimes, when man and a woman love each other very much, they..."
Thankfully this phone rang right on cue, because honestly, I had no idea where I was headed with that story.
2. We actually bought a new car. I'm not lying, it's sitting in my garage. Right next to the '89 Blazer that I love so much.
Jared thinks we're going to sell the Blazer for for $500 in the newspaper. I, on the other hand, think we're going to slap some antique plates on that beauty and start featuring it at local car shows--Bondo, rust, and all!
Official Kelly Blue Book value: $181.
3. Last night, when I brought the new car home, Jared was itching to go for a ride. I, in my infinite wisdom, suggested that we take James to the local strawberry farm--after all, I heard a rumor that they have baby pigs. So off we went, with a four year old boy, a very new vehicle, and light grey interior to enjoy the sight of swine.
When we arrived at the farm and asked for the piglets, the friendly farmer directed us to a big clump of woods, telling us that "The pigs er back thar."
"Well ookeey."
We drove back to the one acre-ish stand of trees and sure enough eight baby pigs came barreling out of the woods and toward the electric fence. Well, seven actually--the brown one just kept on lounging in the food trough.
These suckers were up to their elbows in pure mud, and James was (obviously) thrilled beyond capacity. He leaned over the fence to pat a piglet on the bum, tripped over the electric fence, and landed in the pig mud.
I stood there, silent, shocked, reluctant to grab my child--because hello!, I have no idea if he's a conductor of electricity or not, and I was in no mood to get shocked when I had a perfectly able-bodied husband standing directly to my left.
I was like, "Jared, save him."
And Jared was like, "I think you should save him, he needs his mother."
So I was all, "I'll save him, but next time you want me to touch your you-know-what I'm putting on a pair of wool socks and rubbing my feet all over the carpet before I do it. That way you'll know how your kid feels."
I won. Jared picked him up. Turns out the electric fence was off, thank heavens, stars, and goodness.
So now, we have a sweet new car with an iPod jack and the scent of piglet poop.
It's good to be a Lawson.
Fourth of July Pictures
July 6, 2009
Welp, I pulled it off.
I singlehandedly used thirty pounds of duct tape, fifty cardboard boxes, six cans of spray paint, and ten tons of fabric to make: 1 Statue of Liberty costume, 1 Abe Lincoln Costume, 1 Uncle Sam costume, 3 cardboard x-ray machines, 2 giant signs for the side of a pick-up truck, lots of sparkly decorations, and 1,300 labeled pieces of candy.
Jared, bless his heart and muscles, generously put the seats down in my car so we could take all of the props to the parade site. What a man!
I'm still waiting on a couple of group shots that are on my sister-in-law's memory card, but in the mean time, these will have to hold you over. And I'm sorry, but there will be no Abe Lincoln just yet--I think he's in the group shot.
But, for now, here's a picture of Jared dressed as Uncle Sam in an x-ray machine. As you can clearly see, he was not amused. And he had his hat on backwards (the duct tape was supposed to be in the back ya know).
This is my nephew/patriotic ninja/candy thrower extraordinaire. I let him eat 3 chocolate donuts while we rode around in the back of the truck that morning--my apologies to his mother. But really now, how could I eat three donuts and then say no to him? It just didn't make sense.
Here's Jared again, strutting his stuff, pretending to be a happy person in red striped pants.
And finally, my sister-in-law Alicia who kicked Jared's ass in the sportsmanship competition.
Believe it or not, some random guy called Jared's cell phone and offered him money for the x-ray costumes after the parade. Apparently, he's in a band, and thought the costumes were perfect for a gig that night. I'm generous, so I gave them away, totally free of charge. Well, actually, I gave them away on the condition that he kept our ad on the back, turned around multiple times during the performance, and told the crowd a fake (but amazing) story that involved natural healing and my husband's office phone number.
Welp, I pulled it off.
I singlehandedly used thirty pounds of duct tape, fifty cardboard boxes, six cans of spray paint, and ten tons of fabric to make: 1 Statue of Liberty costume, 1 Abe Lincoln Costume, 1 Uncle Sam costume, 3 cardboard x-ray machines, 2 giant signs for the side of a pick-up truck, lots of sparkly decorations, and 1,300 labeled pieces of candy.
Jared, bless his heart and muscles, generously put the seats down in my car so we could take all of the props to the parade site. What a man!
I'm still waiting on a couple of group shots that are on my sister-in-law's memory card, but in the mean time, these will have to hold you over. And I'm sorry, but there will be no Abe Lincoln just yet--I think he's in the group shot.
But, for now, here's a picture of Jared dressed as Uncle Sam in an x-ray machine. As you can clearly see, he was not amused. And he had his hat on backwards (the duct tape was supposed to be in the back ya know).
This is my nephew/patriotic ninja/candy thrower extraordinaire. I let him eat 3 chocolate donuts while we rode around in the back of the truck that morning--my apologies to his mother. But really now, how could I eat three donuts and then say no to him? It just didn't make sense.
Here's Jared again, strutting his stuff, pretending to be a happy person in red striped pants.
And finally, my sister-in-law Alicia who kicked Jared's ass in the sportsmanship competition.
Believe it or not, some random guy called Jared's cell phone and offered him money for the x-ray costumes after the parade. Apparently, he's in a band, and thought the costumes were perfect for a gig that night. I'm generous, so I gave them away, totally free of charge. Well, actually, I gave them away on the condition that he kept our ad on the back, turned around multiple times during the performance, and told the crowd a fake (but amazing) story that involved natural healing and my husband's office phone number.
All in all, I'd have to say that it was a smashing success. Thanks again for the inspiration.
Oh, Just an Update
July 1, 2009
(Happy 30th Birthday, Jared!)
Well friends, as of my appointment this morning, it's official--I'm up 24 pounds and I've never looked better. At least that's what the medical assistant keeps on telling me.
(I love you, Lisa!)
Actually (and I fully realize that according to the fashion magazines I'm supposed to hate myself and wretch every time I look in the mirror right now), I really can't help but agree with her. I'm looking pretty stinkin' cute these days.
So fine, the back of my thighs are a straight-up cellulite horror show. But the rest of me? Not so bad if I do say so myself--and I should know. After all, I see my reflection at least thirty to fifty times daily--you know, every single time I have to stop what I'm doing to get up and go pee.
And no, that is not an exaggeration.
There are many days, today included, that I'll excuse myself from my desk to use the facilities, do my business, and turn on my heels before I even get back to my office, because I have to go and pee again. And friends, these are not false alarms, these are good-old-fashioned fire house pees.
Earlier today, while I sat in the waiting room for sixty minutes at my midwife's office (gestational diabetes test), I used the potty not once, not twice, but five times. James went twice. We earned our stares--every last one of them.
This pee situation doesn't bother me so much during the day--any excuse to leave my work in a cold, stagnant pile is fine by me. But dude, the night times? Not so good. I'm tired, I'm walking into walls, and a couple of weeks ago I actually woke up to find myself standing on the cold tile, jiggling the deadbolt on our mudroom door. Apparently, I was changing things up and planning to go outside to pee in a sleep-walky haze.
Huh. Makes sense. Safe, too.
Anywho, that's about all I've got for this latest update--up some pounds, pee machine, and it now officially take three jabs to get the blood in my veins out of my arm. Oh, and I almost forgot--this season, McDonald's double cheeseburgers are the new apple.
Have a good rest of the day, guys.
(Happy 30th Birthday, Jared!)
Well friends, as of my appointment this morning, it's official--I'm up 24 pounds and I've never looked better. At least that's what the medical assistant keeps on telling me.
(I love you, Lisa!)
Actually (and I fully realize that according to the fashion magazines I'm supposed to hate myself and wretch every time I look in the mirror right now), I really can't help but agree with her. I'm looking pretty stinkin' cute these days.
So fine, the back of my thighs are a straight-up cellulite horror show. But the rest of me? Not so bad if I do say so myself--and I should know. After all, I see my reflection at least thirty to fifty times daily--you know, every single time I have to stop what I'm doing to get up and go pee.
And no, that is not an exaggeration.
There are many days, today included, that I'll excuse myself from my desk to use the facilities, do my business, and turn on my heels before I even get back to my office, because I have to go and pee again. And friends, these are not false alarms, these are good-old-fashioned fire house pees.
Earlier today, while I sat in the waiting room for sixty minutes at my midwife's office (gestational diabetes test), I used the potty not once, not twice, but five times. James went twice. We earned our stares--every last one of them.
This pee situation doesn't bother me so much during the day--any excuse to leave my work in a cold, stagnant pile is fine by me. But dude, the night times? Not so good. I'm tired, I'm walking into walls, and a couple of weeks ago I actually woke up to find myself standing on the cold tile, jiggling the deadbolt on our mudroom door. Apparently, I was changing things up and planning to go outside to pee in a sleep-walky haze.
Huh. Makes sense. Safe, too.
Anywho, that's about all I've got for this latest update--up some pounds, pee machine, and it now officially take three jabs to get the blood in my veins out of my arm. Oh, and I almost forgot--this season, McDonald's double cheeseburgers are the new apple.
Have a good rest of the day, guys.
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